High Times
by embroiderama
Summary: Dean gets into a bit of trouble with his dad when he tries something new


Title: High Times

Author: embroiderama

Challenge: spnflashback prompt & spnchallenges chart challenge - first drug use

Characters: Dean, John (gen)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: drug use

Spoilers: none

Word Count: 2400-ish

Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas.

Summary: Dean gets into a bit of trouble with his dad when he tries something new

Prompt: Stoner!Winchester boys: Sam and/or Dean's introduction to pot.

High Times

Once they got moved into their new place, a rented house in this boring little city in Pennsylvania, Dean figured out that he'd have twenty minutes to kill every afternoon. The middle school let out at 3, and it would only take him 10 minutes to walk to the elementary school, which didn't let out until 3:30. He wished that this was one of those places that still had the sixth grade in the elementary school so that he could keep an eye on Sammy, but it was kind of cool to be in middle school. The metal shop class, at least, might be useful. Maybe he could talk the dude into letting him weld a little extra on the side, fix up some of the half broken weapons Dad kept carrying around in the trunk.

He figured he'd hang out in the park across the street from the school, maybe get some of his homework out of the way. Or maybe he'd just go ahead and wait outside Sammy's school, make sure nobody was giving him a hard time.

The first day of school, a couple of assholes tried to give Dean a hard time, but he didn't think they would try that again.

"Hey, pretty boy!" The first one called out. "You oughtta be in the girl's locker room!"

And his friend thought it was pretty funny, too, laughing like some kind of an idiot, at least until Dean kicked his legs out from under him, and he landed face first on the tile floor. The first kid tried to take a swing at Dean, but quickly found his arm twisted behind his back, and his face ground into the metal grille of the locker in front of him.

"Say you're sorry."

"Screw you, man." Dean twisted his arm a little more, forcing his face further into the rough metal of the locker door. "Okay, okay, fine, sorry."

Dean let him go and took a couple of steps away before turning around and giving the jerk what he knew was his prettiest smile. "You guys shouldn't be so clumsy."

And then he spent the rest of the day worried, waiting for a summons from the principal's office, but the call never came and nobody else seemed to want to give him a hard time. After school, he walked the half-dozen blocks up to Sammy's school, stopping halfway there to pick up a can of Coke from the little convenience store.

Once he got to the elementary school, he did a little recon around the outside of the place, but nothing stood out. At 3:30, Sammy came running out of the building, chatting to Dean all the way home about his new teacher and the kids in the his class and what they did at recess. Sammy was happy. Everything was okay.

The second day of school, Dean didn't bother heading straight to the elementary school. Instead, he scouted out the park across the street from the school, trying to figure out the best place to hang out. Not in the playground area, definitely, though Sammy might like to go there on Saturday. Not in the part with all the half-dead roses. Nasty!

There was a big band shell thing with a bunch of concrete benches in front of it that looked interesting, but as he came around the back of it he heard a bunch of kids already hanging out inside, so he cut around back of it and came out into a little patch of trees. Dean took a deep breath and realized that it felt calmer there, cooler than out in the sun. He could still hear the kids in the band shell, but he couldn't see them, so he took out his social studies book and figured he'd get a chapter read before he had to go get Sammy.

The third day of school, Dean heard somebody calling his name as he walked into the park after school. "Hey, Winchester!"

Dean turned toward the voice and saw that it was a kid from his home room. Mike? Matt? Kind of a dumbass, but he seemed nice enough. Dean nodded and walked over toward the guy. "Yeah, what's up?"

"My friends and me, we hang out over there." He pointed over toward the band shell where a bunch of kids were already gathered. "You can, too, if you want."

"Thanks," Dean nodded. "I gotta go pick up my brother."

"Whatever, man." Mike/Matt turned around and loped off across the grass.

Dean circled around the back of the park and sat down beneath the trees again. He started working on his science homework, but he couldn't help listening to the laughter that carried from the band shell. They probably wouldn't stay here too long - didn't seem like a big enough place to have enough ghosts and shit for Dad to hunt. Didn't seem worthwhile, bothering to make friends. But he couldn't stop listening to the laughter that carried through the park, and as he put his book back in his bag and stood up to walk to Sammy's school, he thought he might check out the band shell tomorrow.

The next day was Friday, and after school let out Dean found himself walking casually over to the band shell, bypassing the stairs and boosting himself up to the concrete platform where the other guys had already gathered.

"Yo, Winchester!" Mike/Matt called to him.

Dean nodded, looking around at the structure, finding it strange to be on a stage, as though there was going to be an audience.

"Hey, you want a smoke?"

Dean thought about having to wash, wax and detail the car every week for a month after the one time Dad caught him with cigarettes last year, and shook his head. "Nah, man. That's okay."

"Aw, don't tell me a tough guy like you's afraid to smoke some weed."

Dean felt his eyes start to widen and put a stop to it. Pot. Oh, man. The teachers always had their little educational films that said not to do it, but Dean pretty much figured that it was one of those rules, like speeding on the highway, gun control laws, and no trespassing signs, that didn't really mean much to a Winchester. Dad taught him to be careful of things like ghosts and evil spirits and werewolves, things like jammed guns, dull knives, and wet matches, and things like friendly strangers, busy streets, and girls.

Dad had never said anything about this, so Dean figured it wasn't really a big deal. Plus, well, he really didn't want to look like a pussy in front of these guys. "'Course not," he said, holding out his hand for what he now realized had to be a joint. Mike/Matt put the joint to his mouth and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, before passing it on.

Dean copied the movements, and felt the smoke fill his lungs. It burned, not as badly as the cigarette last year, but he still had to work to keep from coughing it back up. Mike/Matt smirked at him.

"Good stuff, huh? My brother got it for me--he's in high school."

"Yeah, it's alright."

"What? Like you've had better."

"All the time, man." Dean stared at him, daring him to start something., but the kid backed down, the look in his eyes telling Dean that he'd heard all about the locker room incident. Dean took another smoke and passed the joint back to Mike/Matt.

"Feelin' good, man?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean lied. The fact was that it didn't feel like anything special, nothing more than a lung-full of smoke, which was a whole lot more of a thrill when it came off the burning bones of something evil. Dean looked at his watch and saw that it was almost twenty after already. "Hey, I've gotta go pick up my little brother."

"Bummer. Hey, you can take this." He pinched out the glowing end of the joint and handed it to Dean. "You want any more, you let me know."

"Uh, thanks," Dean took the joint and stuffed it down in the pocket of his jeans. "Cool." Dean hopped down from the platform and took off to meet Sammy.

Saturday morning, Dean got up early, like usual, and practiced with the throwing knives for a while before making Sammy's breakfast. In the afternoon, he looked around the house and saw that Dad was cleaning his guns--had them all spread out on the big table in the kitchen, and Sammy was glued to the TV.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?" Dad glanced up from the rifle he was breaking down.

"Can I go for a walk?"

"Anywhere in particular you have in mind?"

"No, sir. Just want to get some air."

"Okay. Be careful if you cross Broad St."

As if he hadn't been careful crossing it to and from school the past week. "Yes, sir."

"Don't be gone too long. I'm thinking I'll take you boys to a movie tonight."

"Thanks, Dad!"

"Well, go ahead."

Dean ran out the front door and walked down to the end of the block, then took a right and another right that took him into the alley that ran behind the house. He crouched down behind the bushes that lined the back of their scraggly little yard and reached down into the pocket of his jeans, digging out the remnant of the joint and the box of matches that he'd taken from Dad's supply.

It took a little trial and error, but eventually he got the joint lit. He inhaled deeply, holding it as long as he could. He let himself cough a little on the exhale, since there was nobody watching, and then inhaled again. A couple of minutes later, the little joint was almost gone, and Dean felt…good. Really good. Different.

He slid down a little, leaning back against the grass and dirt at the edge of the alley and propping his left ankle up on his right knee. He closed his eyes and felt like he was riding shotgun in the Impala, coming back from a successful hunt with Dad, tired but glad, sticking his arm out the window as they flew down the highway, surfing the flow of air rushing past with his hand.

He opened his eyes and looked at the sun shining overhead and thought that it was the greatest day, the greatest afternoon. He felt like he could stay out there forever. Then suddenly his heart started to race as he heard footsteps and Dad's voice. "What the fuck? Dean?"

And then his t-shirt was digging into his underarms as Dad hoisted him up by his collar and pulled him backwards, stumblingly, over the low bushes. The yard spun dizzily around him as Dad turned him around and gripped him by both arms.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Um…" Dean looked around for an excuse, an escape hatch, that good feeling he'd just lost.

Dad shook him once and then let go of his arms, taking one big step over the bushes and bending down in the alley. When he stepped back into the yard, he had the stubby end of the joint in his hand. "Where did you get this?"

"It's not mine."

"Boy, do you think I just fell off the turnip truck this morning? I could smell this crap coming in through the kitchen window. Now. Where did you get it?"

"Um, I don't know." Dean looked down at the ground, examined the dirt on his sneakers, anything to avoid seeing his father's face.

"Look at me!" Dad grabbed him by the arm again. "Where. Did. You. Get. It?"

Dean finally looked up, and it was worse than with the cigarettes last year. Worse than when he took the knife to school for show and tell. Not as bad as in Ft. Douglas, maybe. But really, really bad.

"This guy from school gave it to me. A-at the park."

"Today?"

"N-no, sir. After school yesterday."

"Did Sammy see this? Was he--was your brother there?"

"No! No, I wouldn't--"

"Good. Listen to me, that little scumbag who gave you this? His friends? They're losers, son. You want to be a loser?"

"No, sir."

"Do you want--" Dad broke off abruptly, dropping his hand from Dean's arm and turning away. "Some of those kids are going to go too far. Some of them, a few years from now, are going to have a real problem." He turned back to face Dean, and he didn't look so mad anymore. He looked sad, instead, and his eyes had that look like he was thinking of things that were far away.

"I've seen what that can do to a kid, and I don't want you to have to fight that, not that kind of demon. Do you understand me?"

Dean wished he could crawl into a hole and die. He wished he could run away and never have to see that look on Dad's face again. But Sammy needed him, and Dad needed him. He didn't like to think about what Dad was going to make him do to make up for this, but he met his father's eyes and nodded his head. "Yes, sir."

"Okay, here's what we're going to do. First, you don't tell your brother about this. You're supposed to be a good example for him, or did you forget that?"

"Um, no. I mean… I'm sorry."

"Good. Second, you're not to hang out with those kids anymore. If you have spare time after school, you're going to work on your PT. Get a couple mile run in, get your endurance up, okay?"

Running after school? God, what a pain in the ass that would be. "Yes, sir."

"Third, you're grounded for a month. Sammy and I will go to the movies tonight, and you'll stay here. By the time we get home, I want a full inventory of the ammo and the supplies. For the next month, you have school, training, homework and chores. No movies, no hunts, no fun stuff. Got it?"

Dean sighed, thinking about how much his life sucked right at this moment. "Yes, sir."

"And no attitude. Now, let's get inside."

When they got to the back door, Dean turned around and looked up at his father's face, seeing the combination of anger, sadness and disappointment still written there. "Dad?"

"What?"

Dean bit his lip and whispered, "I'm really sorry."

Dad reached out and patted him on the shoulder before nudging him inside. "I know you are, son."

"And, um, Dad?"

"What now?"

"Can I have a sandwich?"

Note: This is set in the town where I mostly grew up, and the boys go to my elementary and middle schools. I was a BIG GEEK so, no, I wasn't one of the kids hanging out in the band shell, but I walked past it every day.


End file.
